


Her Hunger

by KaffeineJunkie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Beautiful Golden Fools, Canonical Incest, Chapter Four is Cersei POV, Chapter Three is Emo, Chapter Two is the smutty one, Character Turned Into Vampire, Crack, Dark but also kind of funny?, Eventual Fluff, F/M, Happy Ending, Hypnotism, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, If Cersei Lannister Were a Literal Vampire, If Game of Thrones Had Vampires, POV Cersei Lannister, POV Jaime Lannister, Vampire!Crack, Why Did I Write This?, porn and angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-04
Updated: 2019-09-16
Packaged: 2020-10-10 01:33:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20519771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaffeineJunkie/pseuds/KaffeineJunkie
Summary: Season 5 AU. The faith militant turned Cersei into a vampire. If Jaime thought she was irresistible *before*, he is in for a shock."Silent, dripping with otherworldly calm, she holds Jaime’s face in her hands and stares deeply into his eyes. The world falls away. All that remains are her pulsating, emerald-framed pupils, a black hole he doesn’t fear in the slightest. He prays to every god he can think of that the abyss will widen large enough to swallow him, envelop him, subsume him."





	1. You Jealous?

**Author's Note:**

> What is even happening! I don't know. I searched high and low for "Cersei is a vampire" fic because I figured someone somewhere had written one, but no! None such exists that I could find! So I started writing one. It's crack-fic-level bonkers, sort of nasty and dark yet also tongue in cheek. If you like bleak comedy with angst and sex maybe it will appeal? I really have no idea if anyone will like it. I have plans for just a few chapters and it will be a Lannister happily ever after. (Which means everyone else in Westeros is probably in trouble.)
> 
> Huge thanks to anyone who gives this experiment a try! Really appreciate it! Feedback welcome and we'll see where this all goes :)

noch·te sang

/näkˈtə ˈsaNG

_noun_

noun: nochte sang; plural noun: nochte saang

Translation:

  1. from High Valyrian; literally, _blood of night_

Definition:

  1. a corpse who comes alive at night to drink the blood of the living
  2. one who lives by preying on others

_archaic_: a woman who exploits and ruins her lover

_Nochte sang_ are marked by most, if not all, of the following characteristics: incandescent complexion; sharp, protruding incisors that extend and retract at will; unusual strength and speed; rapid healing ability; hypnotic eyes and voice

_related:_

_nochte sanguineus_: A poison used as a form of corporeal punishment

_origin:_

The last known use of _nochte sanguineus_ in Westeros occurred during the Faith Militant Uprising of 41 AC. The High Septon of Oldtown injected copious amounts of sanguineus poison into the veins of those whose sins were particularly perverse in nature (ex: incest; murder of a family member). Following a full and complete bloodletting, by leech or venipuncture, the subsequent transfusion took place over a period of three days. At midnight, the sinner was paraded through the streets in a walk of atonement and bound by silver chains to the gates of Starry Sept until first light. When the sun rose, any sinner judged guilty by the gods would spontaneously combust in a pure, blazing-hot flame. All who gathered bore witness to the fearsome power of the Seven. The ritual cleansed the city and served as a warning to others. Discontinued by royal decree by King Aenys I Targaryen, it was briefly revived during the reign of King Tommen I Baratheon.

*** 

It’s been six weeks, but Jaime still isn’t used to his sister’s nightly resurrection. At this rate he’ll never get used to it. One moment Cersei is dead—truly dead, silent and still, no pulse, no heartbeat, no breath—and the next moment, without warning, her eyelids flick open with an almost audible click.

Fast as a manticore striking, her pupils swell from reptilian slits to gaping black holes so large they nearly eclipse the green of her irises. The ribbon of color surrounding the inky void is a vibrant contrast.

Jaime has been in love with Cersei his entire life, but he’s never felt this mesmerized; when they lock eyes, his pulse slows. Pinned in place by her gaze, he’s a butterfly whose sole desire is to stop struggling. He welcomes the sensation—it’s so _peaceful_. He wants to sink down deep into it and never leave. He yearns to succumb to whatever it is she wants to show him at the bottom of the well.

Her nest, for lack of a better term, is a catacomb beneath a long-abandoned tower deep in the Kingswood. It’s risky to stay close to King’s Landing, but she refuses to leave Tommen even though she has no way of seeing him.

Jaime guards her by day when she’s vulnerable. Before he found her, she fed off the stream of mercenaries, hunters, and faith militant sent to vanquish her, dropping down on them from trees twenty feet in the air and tearing their throats out before their swords left their scabbards. Eventually they stopped coming. She’s strong, she’s fast, and she’s motivated, but her enemies learned a harsh lesson when she escaped the Sept of Baelor in a river of blood, and they won’t be caught unprepared again.

From Flea Bottom to the Red Keep, the city watch patrols all night, enforcing a strict curfew and brandishing silver-dipped crossbows and flaming arrows. No one ventures beyond the city gates.

They plan to starve her out.

It’s up to Jaime to ensure her survival.

Twin puncture wounds, perfect tiny circles, decorate his thighs, wrists, inner elbows, and neck. Her favorites are the carotid arteries, though Qyburn cautioned her to rotate locations and never drink longer than ten seconds. She sucked too deeply the first time, and Jaime passed out in a haze of contentment in her arms, as though someone had poured warm ale down his throat. When he came to a day later, Cersei was gratifyingly remorseful and attentive. Gluey, dried streaks of jizz coated his stomach, so whatever had happened he’d enjoyed it.

Now she only drinks from him if she’s starving or has no other options.

Jaime would prefer if she never drank from anyone else, but she requires five quarts a day, i.e. an entire person, so he steals into King’s Landing at dusk to procure the ancillary supply before the curfew takes hold.

She stands before him in her nightgown, looking deceptively demure, long golden curls drifting down her back, hands clasped.

She isn’t pleased with tonight’s selection.

He can tell because she blinks. It’s a holdover habit she no longer needs, used strictly to convey irritation.

“A child?” she says. “Again? What is he, nine?” 

“I believe he’s eleven, your grace,” Qyburn pipes up and Cersei shoots him a look. “I’ll just be gathering night herbs,” he adds, swiftly exiting the room.

The boy who might be nine but is possibly eleven sits propped against the stone wall where Jaime deposited him. He’s hogtied and gagged, but fear is what paralyzes him, not ropes. His eyes dart between Jaime and Cersei as they argue.

“Wasn’t there an entire _clan_ of Cleganes?” Cersei snaps. “What happened to them? Where did they run off to?”

“They can’t all be The Mountain,” Jaime snaps back.

“You know this isn’t enough for me.” (It’s not the child’s age she objects to; it’s his size.) She regards Jaime skeptically. “But perhaps that’s what you want.”

“I told you, everyone over the age of twelve takes silver chloride now. My choices are limited.”

If Cersei drinks blood from anyone with silver chloride in their system, she’ll die in a particularly gruesome manner. It was Qyburn’s fault; the odd little man ingests it every week to keep himself safe from her. Clearly someone in the Faith Militant has duplicated some recipe he left behind and begun doling it out for a tithe. A disproportionate amount of the population exhibits the tell-tale signs of blue-ish gray eyes, gums, and fingernails.

This is the third child Jaime’s had to abduct in as many days. He can’t remember what any of them looked like or what any of them said as they struggled.

In his mind they are all Bran Stark.

She circles the boy, peering at him, assessing him, and finding him wanting.

“I don’t suppose he’s highborn, either, is he?” she gripes.

He leaves her to it, uninterested in watching what’s about to happen. It’s bad enough he has to hear it, that cut-off scream followed by Cersei’s downright orgasmic moaning. She doesn’t use her calming tricks on anyone except Jaime. He thinks she revels in the taste of fear almost as much as the taste of blood. Power over others has always been her aphrodisiac, and decades of feeling as though she had none must make this eternal victory a source of eternal excitement.

It’s over in minutes. Jaime takes a deep breath and re-enters the room. What once was a boy is now a hollowed-out sack of skin and bones in the corner, neck and limbs bent at unnatural angles. Qyburn will harvest the parts he wants and bury the rest.

He should be disgusted, but after she feeds, she’s _irresistible_, and this is coming from someone who could never resist her _before._ Color has returned to her cheeks, which have blossomed pink; her skin is as bright and luminous as the moon; her eyes glow like liquid jewels; and her lips are a plump, luscious crimson.

In a flash, she pins him against the wall, her mouth hot and greedy on his neck.

“Were you feeding or fucking just now?” he mutters.

A rumbling titter rolls through her as she tries and fails to suppress a laugh. She pulls back to regard him, amusement in her eyes. “Are you jealous of my _meals_? You know Lannister blood is my favorite.”

Jaime swallows. She doesn’t ask permission, because that would insult them both. He will give and she will take and pretending it can ever be otherwise would be a farce. The child was dinner, spare though he was. Her brother is dessert.

Silent, dripping with otherworldly calm, she holds Jaime’s face in her hands and stares deeply into his eyes. The world falls away. All that remains are her pulsating, emerald-framed pupils, a black hole he doesn’t fear in the slightest. He prays to every god he can think of that the abyss will widen large enough to swallow him, envelop him, subsume him.

He dimly registers her fangs sinking in, but there is no pain. All is still. His eyes roll back, his heart rate slows, and he nods off, slipping into a dream. Surrounding him are the worst moments of his life—Mother dying/Father berating him/Aerys sending him away from Harrenhaal/Cersei marrying Robert/Cersei in childbirth/more and others, all the moments in which he’s ever felt helpless or scared or angry, culminating in the moment his hand, his _sword hand,_ is chopped off. Each memory is worse than the last, this thorough recounting of his life, or at least they _should_ be—but he views them from a safe distance, as though they’re happening to someone else, because even as they build on each other, piling up, none of them hurt. They coast right on by. They’re whispers on a breeze, irrelevant, harmless.

The truth is so gods-damn beautiful it makes his eyes water. _None of them hurt._ They aren’t a part of him anymore. Everything is okay. Better than okay. Nothing has ever hurt him, and nothing can ever hurt him again. He floats above it all, delirious with understanding. How could he not have seen it, before? How could he ever have believed those things mattered?

At the height of his ecstasy he’s hurtled back from the abyss onto the hard-stone floor of the tower, where Cersei props him up in her arms, licking his skin like a cat cleaning itself, her tongue persistent as it drags across the twin holes she’s left in his neck. A coagulant in her saliva seals the wounds. Then she’s kissing him there, her lips soft and inviting along his jugular.

tbc...


	2. Deadliest in the Seven Kingdoms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime and Cersei do what they do best. (Have sex and argue.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Immediately following the events of chapter one. Smut and angst from start to finish. This might be one of the filthier things I've ever written, and I used to write Spike/Buffy back in the day so that's saying A LOT. And also perhaps sheds light on why I wanted to write a vampire fic, hmm. 
> 
> Mild warning: there are a few references to dub con on both sides (she is a vampire, after all) and in reference to their past trysts. But the latter at least is canon IMO and nothing that viewers of GoT aren't used to with these two.

Straddling his lap, light and eager atop him, Cersei pulls his face to hers. Her tongue tastes of copper and blood, of ancient rituals and pleasure without end. _Immortality._

Jaime gradually becomes attuned to his surroundings, aware of a breeze rustling through his hair, aware that his cock is straining against his breeches. He knows she’s correspondingly wet. He can practically smell it on her, the way her hunger has shifted to desire.

Her nipples poke through the silk of her nightgown. He brushes her golden hair over her shoulder and palms her breast with his left hand. Whispers her name on a jagged breath. 

Beneath her chest, under her ribs, inside the cage where her heart used to beat now lives a dead lump. She’s here with him, she’s loving him and kissing him and talking to him, but her heart is utterly motionless. It should horrify him. He should feel waves of revulsion shudder through him.

If it were anyone else, his instinct would be to shove them away, set them on fire, stamp them out into a fine red mist, but with Cersei he finds it comforting, restful. Her stillness. He craves it for his own. Nothing hurts her, nothing bothers her—she doesn’t have to weigh moral quandaries. If she doesn’t drink enough blood every night, she’ll die. If she doesn’t kill the people she drinks from, they’ll alert the city watch to her location, and she’ll die. It really is as simple as that. He would give anything to experience such clarity, to have free rein to kill. 

She smiles and leans back to remove her gown. She has no need for corsets or undergarments anymore, doesn’t feel the cold the way he does. It’s never been easier to divest her of her clothes and Jaime sighs at the sight of her before him, naked and smooth and all his.

Behind her, in the darkest corner, lies the night’s sacrifice. He winces. Turns his face to the side, as much as he’s able. “I don’t want to do this near him.”

She squishes his cheeks with her thumb and fingers, forcing him to look at her. “Near who?”

He jerks his chin. “The thing, the body, the kid.”

She doesn’t reply, just kisses his bottom lip, pulling it teasingly and letting it bounce back.

He frowns. “Cersei.”

“He served his queen and now he’s gone,” she says, bored. “It’s a better death than most. What does it matter?”

“Can we go somewhere else?”

“Didn’t bother you when it was Joff’s body,” she remarks, eyes flashing. “Or the wolf boy’s, what we _thought_ was his body. You _liked_ that. That’s why you made us finish.”

Had he? Had he made them finish?

“I—” he begins.

“_I_ said we shouldn’t,” she continues, “but that didn’t stop you. Nothing could ever stop you once you got going, could it?” 

She touches his hard-on through his breeches, tracing its length with her fingertips. He sucks in a harsh breath. 

“You said we had to make it worth it,” she says. “Not his death; no, you didn’t care about that. It was the tower. Said you didn’t climb all those stairs not to finish.”

It’s a horror, learning new things about himself. Things he’d forgotten. 

She shoves his breeches down over his ass, the fabric trapping his thighs together. Pulls his painfully stiff cock out into the air.

“There it is,” she purrs in his ear. “The deadliest cock in the seven kingdoms.”

He moans and thrusts his hips toward her. Is it voluntary or involuntary? He couldn’t say and doesn’t care. She strokes him until he drips pre-come. Spreads it around his head with her thumb.

“How many people have died for this cock?” she says. “All so you could have me, and have me, and _have me_. Hundreds? Thousands? Dead kings, usurpers, soldiers and footmen and bannermen and women and children, all for this cock. What’s one more?”

Before he can answer—not that he knows what he would say—she angles him just right and sinks down, searing-tight. She rises and falls, rises and falls, but never all the way down. He bucks, desperate to hit deeper, but it’s useless; she’s set the pace and depth and there is nothing, nothing he can do about it.

He hates that she’s stronger than him now. Hates that he’s growing older while she remains the same. Not the same; ever more beautiful, frozen in time, looking precisely as she did on the night her “monstrous nature, her true soul,” as the High Sparrow put it, would be visible to all of King’s Landing. Are they even twins anymore, when every minute widens the distance between them? 

“We’re still twins,” Cersei whispers, as though she’s read his mind. For all he knows, she has. For all he knows, she can do that now, _really_ do that, and hasn’t mentioned it because it’s more fun for her this way. “In all the ways that count.”

She bounces in his lap, mashing their thighs together each time she lands. He matches her beat for beat, pushing up as much as he can in his constricted state, but it’s still not enough, she still feels agonizingly out of reach. She’ll be out of reach the rest of his days on this _earth_ if something doesn’t change.

He wrenches his head back, exposing his neck. Feels her hot gaze on his pulse.

“Kill me,” he begs. “Make me the same as you. _Please, _Cersei…!”

He knows the legends, knows what needs to happen. If she sucks him dry and then lets him feed from her before he shuffles off this mortal coil, he can return as one of her.

Cersei twists her hands in his hair, and it _hurts_, and he loves it, needs it. “Is that the real reason you brought me a child?” she asks. “To make me frantic with hunger so I’d lose control and have to turn you? Were you trying to trick me, sweet brother?”

It’s no secret he wants to join her as _nochte sang_. “We can be together—just as we’ve always wanted. Tell me you want that. You must…” he moans.

“Of course, I do. But not like this. You think you want this, but you don’t.” All the while she continues twisting in his lap, milking his cock.

He wants to howl, wants to make her understand. “Oh, but I do, I do…”

“I’ll never walk in the sun again, never.”

He clutches her to him and buries his face between her breasts. Kisses and sucks her there, nuzzling, tasting, pleading. “I’ll warm you,” he swears. “I’ll be your sun, and you’ll be mine.”

He’s not afraid of death, only of the things he’s done to stave hers off; the things he’s yet to do.

She slows down, slippery and cruel because she’s there but not _there_ and she won’t allow him to drive deeper. She’s offering him a _taste_ of her hot core but not _enough_ of it.

“No,” she says. “You’re more useful to me this way.”

As if to apologize, she flips them over without breaking contact so he can be on top. He grunts and wiggles his breeches down past his thighs, all the way to his ankles, freeing his legs to move at last. Turns her roughly onto her stomach so he can plow into her from behind.

A sense memory from Winterfell rips through his guts; how he slammed her against him like a rag doll and wrenched an orgasm out of her before roaring through his own. She wasn’t thrilled about it, but that only turned him on more, knowing he could make her come under any circumstance.

He wants to think he’s changed, that getting his hand chopped off _changed him_, but maybe when it comes to Cersei he can’t change. After all, he’s able to pin her to the ground with a golden hand just as easily as he does with a flesh and blood one and while it doesn’t happen often, it happens enough. Maybe she likes being physically stronger than him right now. Maybe that’s why she won’t succumb to his plea. He doesn’t know and can’t ask because if that’s not her reason he doesn’t want to put the idea in her head. He’ll just have to wait, approach it from another angle on another day.

In the meantime, he gentles his movements. Takes her in slow, deep thrusts with his arms wrapped around her so he can press kisses into the back of her neck. She shudders and moans and after several minutes of dragging her to the edge he pulls out and comes on her back, then brings her thighs to his face. Sucks her and licks her until she trembles in release. He wants to remind her that he _can_ be her sweet brother. That he can be anything she wants him to be.

Maybe she’s in a similar mood because after he tugs his breeches up and she slips back into her nightgown, she cradles his head in her lap and plays with his hair. He feels self-consciously sweaty, embarrassed that his heart rate's still elevated, while Cersei is cool and dry to the touch; wholly, enviably serene.

“Where’s Qyburn?” he asks, after enjoying her caresses for a time. 

“Gathering herbs. Why?”

“He’s been gone for ages.”

“Are you worried about poor Qyburn? You’ve grown fond of him, too, have you? Blue lips and all?” She smirks and kisses Jaime on the forehead.

“I’m worried what the two of you are cooking up together while I’m asleep.” Qyburn keeps Cersei’s hours, the better to scheme and plot with her. They’re both utterly reliant on Jaime during daylight.

She tickles his ear with a tendril of her hair. “When we want you to know, we’ll tell you.”

“But—"

“As your sister, I feel it’s my duty to tell you, you worry too much,” she says dryly. Another forehead kiss. “Go to sleep.”

“Stay with me a little longer,” he says, reaching for her and stifling a yawn.

It’s disconcerting to have no idea what Cersei might be up to. The old Cersei preferred to _frighten_ Bran Stark, not kill him (or at least, that’s what she claimed); the old Cersei gave Ned Stark multiple chances to return to the North, or at the very worst be sent to the Wall. The old Cersei always gave life a chance, always gave people a chance to convince her to spare them. She only resorted to violence when she felt completely backed into a corner. Six weeks ago she was tortured by the Faith Militant and turned into a monster. Every single day since she’s killed or gotten Jaime to kill for her without a single qualm. He wants that, too. Wants to stop _caring_. Wants to hunt and feed and fuck without guilt, just like Cersei. Why can’t she see how badly he needs that? Why can’t she gift him with that?

“I understand you better now,” Cersei says, her hand soft and smooth on his cheek. Once again it’s as if she’s read his thoughts.

He swallows. Nervous. “How so?”

“You told me once you feel most alive when you’re in battle or in bed. I understand that now, it’s in _my_ blood, too, now that I can do those things, too. Now that I’m allowed.”

He sits up, agitated. “It’s not the same. It’s one thing for your—for the people you need—to die sword in hand, when they’ve come here to kill you. That’s justified, I get that, but for me to grab someone innocent—"

She scoffs. “No such thing—"

He stares at her. “I can’t live like this.”

“Yes, you can. It won’t be like this forever. I’m working on it.” She looks into his eyes and he stares back, hoping, praying, begging to dive into the abyss once more. “You don’t have to feel guilty,” she says softly. “You did the only thing you could have done.”

“I did the only thing I could have done,” he repeats haltingly, and then his eyes roll back and he’s asleep, he’s dreaming, but it feels as though it’s a continuation of his conversation with Cersei.

In the dream, she’s 15 years old, dressed in a simple brown cloak, and she’s sitting on his chest, utterly still, staring down at him. Her mouth doesn’t move. It’s not even open. But he hears her speaking all the same:

“I love you, I love you, I love you.”

When he wakes up, the child’s body is gone.

As is Qyburn.

As is Cersei.

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone think Jaime and Cersei finished having sex after Bran interrupted them? I used to assume they skittered down those stairs as fast as they could, but every now and then I think, "It's totally 50/50 they finished." So in this AU they did :)
> 
> We're at the halfway point in this story. I'm planning on 4 chapters with the last one finally being a Cersei POV. Thanks for reading!


	3. Last Rites

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaime drinks dreamwine and tries to make peace with two important people before he departs the realm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first attempt at writing for two particular characters (you'll see who, I wanted to keep it a bit of a secret). I hope it works for you guys!

The rain’s coming down piss-poor all around him, cold and thin and miserable. The gods can’t even get the rain right today, and he’s not sure what he’s meant to be doing. If they’d wanted him along, they’d have woken him, so he’s not about to set off looking for them.

There were no signs of a struggle, and the rooms they occupied within the lower depths of the tower look downright tidy—Qyburn’s quarters contain a stack of left-behind books and half a bottle of dreamwine—so he’s not _worried_, exactly. Still, their absence is unsettling.

His best option is to stay put and wait for their return, but Jaime Lannister is not a man renowned for his patience.

In lieu of patrolling the tower, he spends the next two days glopping through the mud, drying his clothes by the fire, hunting small game, and re-living the fight against the Brotherhood from his squire days. Gods, he’d been arrogant back then, so careless in his assumptions, certain as he was that the Brotherhood’s defeat and his role in it was only the beginning of his victories, accolades, and triumphs. He saw it as a warm-up, a prelude to _Tales of Ser Jaime of House Lannister_, _Greatest Knight of his Generation_.

Instead, that fight against the Brotherhood turned out to be all there was to say. The prelude _was_ the story. His potential _was_ the ending.

He’d peaked too early. He’d known that for a while (_this is what happens when you’re too good, too young) _and after he’d earned the Kingslayer moniker, there was no turning back. The world turned out to be considerably smaller than he’d imagined; one might say it was the length of the hallway from the king’s chambers to Cersei’s. That was all he’d ever amounted to: marching from one room to the other, protecting a man he hated and bedding the woman he loved. 

Some mornings he still wakes up thinking he can feel his right hand, that he can wiggle his fingers, grip a sword. When it wears off, he feels worse than he did before.

It’s the same with Cersei’s tricks. At night, her voice and eyes lull him into a state of blissful torpor, convince him he’s never felt more relaxed ("_You have nothing to feel guilty about; you did the only thing you could have done"_), and that lying still and letting the good feelings wash over him is the best use of his time. The problem is, the good feelings eventually recede, and only Cersei has the power to bring them back. He wants to feel calm and certain and absolved and loved _all_ the time, not just for small pockets of it.

By asking her to change him, he’d been asking her to marry him. _I hereby seal these two souls, binding them as one for eternity._

He didn’t know why she didn’t understand.

_Cursed be he who would seek to tear them asunder._

Couldn't she see, it was _Cersei_ keeping them apart, now? One action from her would eliminate any and all barriers between them. He could be not just near her,but_ with_ her, by her side, forever. Her refusals pain him. Perhaps he’ll slit his own throat, see what she does about _that_. And if she still doesn’t turn him, perhaps he’s better off. At least he’ll no longer be tortured by her rejection.

He thinks of the _look_ Cersei gave him when he arrived home without a sword hand: As though he were unknown to her. The disappointment, the revulsion, the distaste; he can still see it behind his eyelids whenever he’s feeling particularly low. There she sat, clean and lovely and untouched by war, better than any dream, and his reappearance had shattered the dream.

He’s still waiting for to give him the homecoming he was supposed to have, he realizes. Waiting for her to throw herself into his arms and sob her relief that he came back to her, that he did whatever it took.

Perhaps he should have bathed before showing up in her chambers, but he couldn’t bear to put off their reunion for another second. She’d seen him dirty and bloodied from tournaments and that had never bothered her. The instant they found a quiet place to be alone, she couldn't even wait five minutes for him to remove his armor. He'd still be huffing and electrified from battle while she tugged and yanked at any strap or hook that impeded her progress before climbing onto him and screaming herself hoarse. 

His trek from prisoner to handless kingsguard wasn’t triumphant enough for her, just ugly survival. He wasn’t her golden lion anymore.

Once they’re the same, he’ll feel like himself again, he's sure of it.

Because right now, he’s feverish, shivering when he should be warm, overheated when he should be cold. Nothing fits right inside him, his organs seem to be planning a revolt. They whisper to him incessantly—find Cersei, get to Cersei, let her heal you.

On the evening of the third day, he helps himself to Qyburn’s dreamwine.

Sometimes he thinks he could be a drinking man, a serious drinking man, with a serious drinking man’s voice, and maybe even a song hidden inside somewhere. Sometimes he thinks, yes, that would be something because the only thing he’d be able to remember was that he couldn’t remember anything. That kind of oblivion has its own charms. It must. Tyrion always seemed to think so. 

It’s settled, then: when Cersei shows up, he’ll press a blade against his throat and dare her to stop him, threaten to do himself in if she doesn’t agree to change him. She would never let him die, would she? No, of course not. Not his Cersei.

His heaven, his hell, his Cersei.

His fingers are sluggish around the bottle. He wants to pass out. He knows he won’t sleep. He’ll hang on until he’s no longer aware of the hanging sensation. This is what it means to be trapped between visions. He’ll wait for the dream to find him, just as he’s waiting for his sister to return. That’s the beauty of dreamwine; the dreams find _you_. They surround you and carry you, oh-so-gently, out of your body; and if you listen carefully, they whisper secrets to you about events to come.

He’s in the hot tub in Harrenhal, but instead of hot water boiling and bubbling around him, it’s filled up with blood, like a foul soup, and he’s being cooked alive. Across from him, standing outside the bloody depths and not letting it get on her, is the only other woman he’s ever spent time with. He’s surprised, but maybe he shouldn’t be. She saved him once before from meeting the Stranger. Perhaps more than once. Maybe his self-pity called out to her through the ether, conjuring her across time to meet in the dreamworld.

She stands tall and strong in full knight regalia, the armor he gave her but something else too, the white cloak of the kingsguard, her arms crossed, her blonde hair slicked back, her blue-eyes probing his. He remains naked under the water, vulnerable yet protected; he knows she’ll never let him come to harm.

“Hello, Brienne.” He waves with his golden hand. It drips blood, the droplets disappearing as they merge into the pool of red. “You’re looking more intimidating than ever.”

“Ser Jaime. You look bloody awful, if we’re being honest.”

“I feel bloody awful. Yet I’ve never been more alive,” he quips.

She scoffs. “You’re gaunt. Wasting away. She’s draining the life from you.”

_I’m not just hoping for that, Brienne. I’m counting on it._

“You don’t have to die with her,” Brienne insists, her voice cracking.

“I know that,” he snaps.

“You bleed willingly, then?”

“Of course, I bleed willingly! It’s the only thing keeping her alive!”

“If you truly loved her, you wouldn’t want this for her. This is no kind of life. If you truly loved her, you would put her out of her misery.”

“The thing is, Brienne, I’ve never done anything _good_ for love. I’ve only ever done terrible things. I pushed a child out a tower window and crippled him for life, for Cersei. I murdered my cousin with my bare hands—just to get back to Cersei. I fathered children I can never spend time with, let alone acknowledge. But if I can hold on until she changes me, it will all be erased. I won’t feel it anymore. It won’t bother me anymore.”

“The fact that it bothers you proves you’re different than her. Hold on to that. It’s what makes you human.”

“I don’t want to be human. Not if _she_ isn’t.”

Cersei might be the altered twin, but _he’s_ the one who feels… wrong. He’s twitching inside his skin. He’s tired and irritable and desperate. She’s gone on to a new plane of existence—a better one. She’s been born anew, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to stay behind.

Brienne tries a new tactic. “I’m not asking you to kill Cersei. That…_thing_ walking around with Cersei’s face is not Cersei. You do understand that? It’s—something else.”

“None of that matters to me. I cannot live while Cersei dies. We will die together as we were born together.” He nods toward Oathkeeper, kept pristine and gleaming under her care. “That sword was my last chance at honor.”

She glances at the sword. “You need only ask if you want it back—"

“I don’t, that’s the point I’m trying to make. It’s yours, it’s always been yours. For whatever that’s worth. Probably not much.”

“I won’t let you down,” she promises, and he believes her.

It feels like last rites. As though he’s bequeathing something to her. May as well make it official.

“If there’s anything left of my honor, I give it to you,” he says quietly. “It’s yours now, to do with as you like. Where I intend to go, I can’t take it along. I have no use for it any longer.”

She looks pained by this admission but nods shortly and in a sudden rush, he’s fully clothed, he’s running through the bowels of the Red Keep with Tyrion on the night he set his little brother free.

Loving Cersei has always meant forsaking all others; it wouldn't work, otherwise. Still, he tried to make room for Tyrion only to have Tyrion forsake _him_ by killing their father and joining the enemy.

“You've been drinking," Tyrion says heartily. "I approve."

"I have a decision to make," Jaime replies, half a smile. "Seemed like a solid plan."

"Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think."

"I'm afraid it's dreamwine, and--did you just insult me?"

"Never." Tyrion grins and tilts his head, draws forth a serious countenance. "I didn’t do it, you know. I didn’t kill Joffrey.”

“I know."

"She's a monster now, Jaime. An actual monster; I'm not speaking hyperbolically. It's not her fault, but that doesn't make it any less true."

_Hyperbolically_? Tyrion was always a man of very big words. Jaime hangs his head. “I don't care.”

“What would it take to let her go?” Tyrion asks gently.

“You already know the answer to that," Jaime shouts. "You! I would have let her go for _you_! I was willing to, if it meant your life. I would’ve traded—I offered to leave the kingsguard, return to Casterly Rock and take a wife, accept my inheritance, and Father agreed. He would have spared you, sent you to the Wall. But your pride, your foolish, damnable pride kept you from—and then you went and murdered him, as though my sacrifice was nothing. Worst of all, you robbed me of finding out how Cersei would have reacted to me leaving. Would she have raged against my decision? Forbidden it? Gone with me? Revealed the truth about us to the realm as she’d threatened to do? You _stole_ that from me."

"I'm not surprised that's how you view it," Tyrion replies calmly.

Maybe it's for the best, Jaime thinks. Loving Cersei has always meant _only_ loving Cersei. Maybe there really is no room for anyone or anything else, and Tyrion's refusal to play into the bargain Jaime had struck was the gods' way of proving it.

His devotion didn't go both ways. It couldn't. Cersei had rightfully made room for her children—and make no mistake they're _her_ children, not Jaime’s; he’s never had fuck-all to do with them. It's yet another thing he loves about her--her all-consuming, fierce desire to protect her brood. What remains of her brood. Their last boy, now.

Tyrion shakes his head and climbs up the ladder and out of sight, off to murder their father again in an endless loop. Jaime breaks free from Tyrion's quest and continues on his own.

At the end of the hall is a door. It calls to him, pulls him forward, and he knows with every fiber of his being that Cersei is waiting for him behind it. She’s beckoning him, calling to him. He speeds up, racing now--the door flings open and Cersei is--shaking him awake.

Revived, he jolts upward, back to reality, and takes in his surroundings.

She’s returned to him, unharmed but frantic. “We have to leave—hurry, hurry.”

“Jus’ let me get-tup an’—"

Her brow furrows. “Are you drunk?”

In the end, Jaime did not have to slash his own throat.

In the end, someone else did it for him.

A blur of movement streaks past the corner of his eye. Unimaginable pain follows. It feels as though two thin daggers of Valyrian steel have punctured his jugular, followed by a slashing tear, as though he’s being split open like piece of ripe fruit, blood hot and slick pouring out, the stench of piss and iron in the air, it's all happening at once--a scream somewhere, and Cersei’s voice: “Tommen, no!”

All is black, save for horrible wet sounds and slurping moans, and he has just enough time to notice that despite the many times his sister drank from him, none of them were anything like this. Each and every time, she had treated him delicately, reverently, like something to be treasured, and his final thought as a human is one of quiet, stunned relief: _she really did love me;_ _she has always loved me_…

In the end, Jaime Lannister dies in the arms of the woman he loves.

tbc…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously this is not the end for Jaime. :)
> 
> Tyrion's quote about ale and "fellows whom it hurts to think" comes from A.E. Housman, author of "A Shropshire Lad." I thought it fit Tyrion well so I swiped it.
> 
> Stay tuned for the big ol' conclusion, which will also reveal Cersei's side of the story. I hope to have it up within two weeks (definitely before the end of the month). 
> 
> Thanks very much for reading! I can't tell you how much I appreciate the comments and thoughts.


	4. Hear Us Roar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Lannister twins get their Happily Ever After (emphasis on *ever*).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They may be undead, but they’re living their best lives. ;)
> 
> **Edited to add: WARNING: I didn’t know I needed to say this, but apparently I do: if you don’t like the idea of Jaime and Cersei as bloodthirsty vampires, you will probably not like this fic.
> 
> Everybody else: Remember how I said this might turn darkly comedic? Here we go...This has been an unconventional fic at best, but I had a blast trying something new and I really appreciate you joining me for the ride. FYI it’s my first time attempting a Cersei POV. I realize she’s a vampire in this, but hopefully I captured her personality and hopefully it’s fun to read. This is a doozy of a chapter, wrapping things up and filling in the gaps from chapters 1-3.
> 
> Feedback is love and I’m incredibly grateful for it. I'm also always up for analyzing characters. Thanks again for reading!

When the twins were very young, they’d played at marriage. Cersei liked to arrange flowers in her hair, to serve as a crown.

“I’ll be Cersei and you be Oberyn,” she instructed her brother, who stood ramrod straight and proud, stick-sword in hand.

Or: “I’ll be Cersei and you be Rhaegar.”

Or: “I’ll be Cersei and you be—”

“Jaime,” he interrupted.

“No, you can’t be Jaime. You have to be someone else.”

“Why?”

“You just do.”

“Why do you get to be Cersei, then?” he demanded.

She squinted at him. “Do you wish I was someone else?” Pause. “…Melara, perhaps?”

He wrinkled his nose. “No.”

She smiled, and the game continued, the rules in place.

When they were older by several years, she asked him about it. “Why did you agree to be other people when we played that game?”

“Because no matter who you married, I was the one who got to kiss you,” he replied with a smirk, and proceeded to do just that, until her arms went limp around his neck and her knees buckled and they tumbled into the grass, Jaime’s weight on her the most natural and comforting feeling in the world.

#

Six weeks ago, Cersei had been imprisoned and humiliated, her mind broken and her body altered in ways she hadn’t known were possible. Childhood tales of beasts who looked exactly like people but could only emerge in the dead of night had long ago been dismissed by maesters from every corner of Westeros.

Conventional wisdom said the stories may have been true _once_, but now they were nothing but old fables, meant to scare children into minding their parents, staying in in their beds, and not opening the door to people they didn’t know. For _nochte sang_ had to receive permission before they could enter any household—from the most insignificant cottage to the looming castles of great lords and ladies—and what better lesson to keep little ones vigilant toward strangers?

She may have even mentioned it to Joff once, when he’d been keen on staying up all night and interrupting her slumber every five minutes.

_“You better be careful they don’t come for you_. _They won’t bite anyone who’s properly under the covers, they only go for children who are up and about during the night, causing mischief.”_

She said it with a smile and a little poke to his belly, so he’d know she was joking. Nevertheless, his eyes went wide before he scurried back to his chambers, a princeling momentarily compliant.

When the Faith Militant chained her up, removed her blood, and re-filled her with the blood of _nochte sang_, she’d left her body behind and looked down upon the event from afar, fascinated by the process. When it was over, she was allowed one visitor. Clever Qyburn swapped Cersei’s silver chains for an electroplating alloy, so that breaking free—when the time was right—would require less effort than it took to toss her hair.

Speaking of her hair (her golden glory, the crown jewel of her signature beauty), it turned out to be the catalyst for her escape. Cersei had intended to wait until she had a clearer shot at the High Sparrow, that _barefooted commoner_. She was practically foaming at the mouth to rip out his entrails, but instinct took over when she noticed a razor coming for her hair; all self-control snapped. As did her chains.

Immortality she could handle. Immortality with short hair was a bridge too fucking far.

Apparently, the blood ran so copiously in the streets that weeks later it still hadn’t been washed out. The thought made her smile.

Those jealous-bitch septas, Unella in particular, had never been as aroused as they were that day, Cersei was certain; they’d been ecstatic and sopping wet over the idea of shearing Cersei’s hair off like a sheep.

They said it was to destroy the pride it represented. It proved to be their downfall.

Didn’t they know Cersei’s pride could never be snuffed out? They could starve her, torture her, force confessions out of her, and change her into a monster from campfire stories, but she was and would remain a lioness of Casterly Rock. She would _never_ be a sheep.

It took Qyburn hours to wash the blood and grisly chunks out of her hair, but it had been worth it. She’d survived, she had the strength of ten men and the speed of seventeen zorses, she would remain forever beautiful, if not quite as young as she would have wished; and most importantly, she still had a child on the throne.

There was also the matter of that _other_ attribute she’d acquired—the one she hadn’t told any of her companions about yet.

In short, becoming _nochte sang_ was the best thing that had ever happened to Cersei Lannister.

#

The decision to turn Tommen had been an easy one.

She had learned long ago to separate the things she wanted from the things she couldn’t have. If she couldn’t have it, she banished it from her mind and reduced it to folly.

Since she’ll never be human again, being human holds no value. Not for her, and not for _anyone_.

Because if the Queen is _nochte sang_, the peasants and smallfolk must bow to _nochte sang_. It would become a symbol of power, no—of _divine right_—the best anyone could aspire to, reserved only for her, King Tommen, a select group of small council (chosen by her), and a select group of lords (various wardens, for example; also chosen by her). Half the kingsguard would be turned, and half would remain human so as best to protect the royal family during the day.

Meetings and announcements in the throne room would take place at night. Everyone in King’s Landing would submit to a new schedule to appease their masters. It would be glorious.

The dynasty of a thousand years that Father always blathered on about had come true! Not in the way any of them, including Father, could have imagined, but true, nonetheless. Tommen, _her and Jaime’s Tommen_, a _Lannister_, would rule for _eternity_. And it was all Cersei’s doing.

But then Tommen had to go and tell Margaery, and Margaery alerted the High Sparrow, in exchange for the release of her pillow-biting brother.

#

While Jaime did whatever he did in the Kingswood, she and Qyburn had unleashed a multi-tiered plan, perfected over a month of devising.

The showdown in Tommen’s chambers lasted all of ten minutes. She’d leapt onto the High Sparrow’s shoulders and ripped his hypocritical head off in a decadent spray of blood and viscera—Jaime would be proud, she couldn’t wait to tell him—but an endless array of faith militant proved too difficult to eliminate with Tommen and Qyburn to worry about. The trio held hands and leapt out the window, their strength and agility allowing them to land harmlessly below (well, Qyburn had broken a leg even while clinging to her back, but he’d be fine eventually), and proceeded to enact their back-up strategy.

Oddly enough, she didn’t mind too much that things had gone awry, because it opened about one hundred new doorways to her, and she was eager to test out each one.

Also, this way they got to blow up the Sept of Baelor on their way out of King’s Landing, which satisfied her on a sheer, primal level.

Unfortunately, when they reconvened at their hideout in the Kingswood, Tommen’s own primal instincts asserted themselves the instant he smelled Jaime’s human blood. He’d gone blind with hunger and she should have seen it coming; after all, he was a teenage boy. Hadn’t he regularly inhaled six or seven courses at lunch when he was human?

She’d instantly intervened but it was too late; Jaime lay bleeding out in her arms and her timeline for turning him sped up by months. Her fangs protruded and she sloppily bit her wrist, thrusting the torn skin against his mouth, blood gushing out, and ordered him to drink. His head lolled back so she propped him up, shoved his face against her wrist again and winced when he began to suckle.

He gagged at first, spitting it out, and she couldn’t say she blamed him; her own ordeal, and that of Tommen’s, had been done with tubes and beakers and sterilized equipment. This was primitive and grotesque in comparison.

“You’ll die if you don’t swallow it, and I will not let you die,” she cried, shaking him. Soon she came back to herself and realized she had the ability to calm him and that she should be using it. Panic would not serve anyone.

She looked in her brother’s eyes and sent him every ounce of feeling she’d harbored for him over a lifetime of loving him, and his eyes glazed over, a smile on his lips, as he drank his fill from her at last.

#

Tommen shuffles in, contrite, while Jaime finishes removing the binding from his neck. He’s already healed, but a faint scar remains, in the exact shape and size of Tommen’s fangs.

“I’m th-sorry, Uncle Jaime.”

His lisp while fanged is unfortunate, but Cersei reminds herself he isn’t often fanged, and indeed, he retracts them right away, embarrassed.

“What did we talk about, Tommen?” Cersei asks, soft but insistent.

Tommen rubs one boot-toe behind the other, eyes lowered. “I’m sorry, _father_,” he corrects hesitantly.

Jaime shoots her a surprised look. _You told him?_

She responds with an almost imperceptible nod. She watches their next interaction very carefully, her ears and eyes on high alert.

“It’s alright, Tommen,” Jaime says, and pats the spot next to him so Tommen can sit.

But her son is sobbing now, crimson streaks falling from his eyes, replenished just as quickly. The blood cascades down his hands onto his wrists, reminding her of her recent ordeal in healing Jaime.

“You don’t have to cry,” Jaime says, placing a slightly awkward arm around Tommen’s shoulder. “You see, it’s what I wanted. More than anything. To be with your mother. With—with you.”

He glances at Cersei, and they hold each other’s gaze fractionally.

“It’s not that…” Tommen takes a few frantic, unnecessary gulps of air. “I ate Margaery,” he howls.

Cersei turns away so they won’t see her smile. Clears her throat, takes a moment to rearrange her expression into a more appropriate one, and joins her brother and son where they sit so that Tommen’s in the middle of them, protected on both sides.

“It’s not your fault,” she soothes him, resting her head on his shoulder. Waits for him to look at her. “After all, I ate the Mountain,” she admits.

“And they were practically best friends,” Jaime adds sardonically.

“You ate the Mountain?” Tommen sniffles.

“I didn’t mean to, but he looked so large and succulent. Dry your eyes, that’s it. Margaery was a manipulative whore and you’re well rid of her, sweetling. She betrayed you. She betrayed all of us.” This does nothing to sway him, so she tries again. “Besides, she’s not dead. She’s only in a coma, Qyburn said.”

Her advisor had stayed behind for a few hours after Cersei and Tommen’s legendary exit to listen for rumors and confirm that the populace believed the Lannisters were all dead.

“Don’t call her a whore,” Tommen pleads. “She was my royal wife and I lo-loved her.”

“She’ll probably be fine,” Cersei says with a roll of her eyes, unable to maintain the pretense any longer.

“Can we go back for her, if she is?” Tommen asks hopefully.

“We’ll talk about that later,” Cersei replies.

“I have a question,” Jaime announces crisply. “If you were willing to turn all those other people—small council members, certain kingsguard and the like, why the _fu_—” he glances at Tommen, “Why didn’t you want to turn _me_?”

Gods, it was like having two children. “We’ll talk about that later as well,” Cersei replies through gritted teeth.

“Shouldn’t we be on the move? Don’t you think they’ve sent an entire brigade after us?” Jaime says.

“At first I thought we needed to flee as well, but Qyburn assures me the search parties have been called off.”

She explains that after they blew up the Sept of Baelor with wildfire (“_That_ slowed them down,” Cersei adds with a snicker), they faked their own deaths by placing four burned bodies in the gravel and ashes, to represent her, Tommen, Jaime, and Qyburn.

“Why are you certain they’ll think it was us?” Jaime insists.

“We sacrificed Tommen’s crown to the ruse, and posed him on his knees praying.”

Jaime folds him arms skeptically. “And what about me? What was _I _doing?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Hugging the woman, as though protecting her.”

He considers this. “Sounds about right.”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of Tommen’s furry friend, who hisses at Cersei and Jaime, revealing feline fangs, and curls up in Tommen’s lap, flexing its claws and kneading Tommen’s legs. Tommen coos at the creature and strokes its chin.

Jaime is incensed. “You let Tommen turn his _cat_?”

“And why not? What harm does it do?” Cersei murmurs. “He’s lost so much—"

“He’s part of the family,” Tommen says. “And now he won’t ever die, either. Isn’t that right, Pouncey Puss? You survived Joffrey and you survived this. You’re a brave, fine fellow.”

“ ‘Pouncey Puss'! ” Jaime repeats, aghast.

“His real name is Ser Pounce, but I sometimes call him Pouncey Puss.”  
  
Jaime shakes his head, directs his words to Cersei. “You’re too soft with him.”  
  
(Though somewhat to belie her brother’s point, Tommen is currently smearing his own blood-tears into war paint on his face.)

“Go climb trees with Ser Jumpy,” Jaime says gruffly. “I need to speak with your mother alone.”

“Ser Pounce,” Tommen corrects him, leaving with the creature in his arms.

“The cat,” Jaime spits, whirling to face her, the moment Tommen is gone. “But you wouldn’t turn me?”

She brushes this off, looks away. “You got what you wanted, as you said.”

He grips her hands in his, making her face him. “Tell me why.”

“Why _what_?” she stalls.

“Why you didn’t want me with you.”

She straddles his lap, all soft kisses and gentle words. “It wasn’t that. It had nothing to do with that. I had to think about the future—”

“Give me three reasons.”

_Well, he asked for it._ She leans back. “Oh, let’s see. Impulsive. Reckless. Doesn’t think. Shall I continue?”

“Those are all different ways of saying the same thing.”

“And they’re all very good reasons.”

He sighs. “I’m famished. Where’s Qyburn?”

“Not funny. Besides, he’s full-up on silver chloride, it wouldn’t end well for you.”

“I don’t like him.”

“He’s the only reason I’m alive. The only reason _any_ of us are alive, and he’s never given me any reason to doubt him.”

“That you know of,” he points out.

Jaime’s jealousy can be useful but it’s also maddening. His rivalry with Qyburn is absurd. As if there’s anything to fear from her advisor. 

#

Tommen’s habit of apologizing to those he’s eaten or about to eat grates on her nerves. _The lion does not apologize to the sheep._

Soon he refuses to kill people at all, preferring to hunt game. He was never much of a hunter while human, so he’s not particularly adept at; it takes him the entire night—all fourteen hours of it—to kill a few small animals. (Winter had indeed come, it’s wonderfully dark most of the time, which proves Cersei’s belief about the divine rights of _nochte sang_.) But small game don’t contain nearly enough blood, and Tommen goes to bed most mornings with a stomach ache.

Her brother, on the other hand, is a killing machine of extraordinary depravity.

It’s not exactly a surprise, but it does require Cersei’s intervention when, after laying waste to an entire village’s population just because he can, Jaime goes around drawing Lannister Lion sigils in blood on every wall he sees, and occasionally slathers the words “Hear Me Roar” above them. Frustrated, Cersei follows his path, altering the images and words so they’re not identifiable—just the ravings of a madman.

She threatens to withhold sex if he doesn’t stop, which would be hardest on her, actually; if they’re not fucking, he’ll still pleasure himself, but she won’t. She’s always found the idea of it base, at least for women. Not only does it indicate a lack of control over one’s body, but if you can’t find someone who wants to do those things to you (for you, on you, in you) you don’t deserve to have them done, she thinks.

Luckily the threat alone is enough to persuade him.

“Can I still string them up by their ankles and slit their throats so their blood drips into my mouth while you ride me?” Jaime asks. Having kept their relationship a secret for so long, Jaime gets off on making people watch them copulate as the final thing their victims see.

“Yes, fine, just make it appear as though a human did it. Look, we have to be clever,” she explains for what feels like the millionth time. “We can’t draw attention to ourselves. They all think we’re dead; no one’s looking for us. That gives us time.”

“Time for what?” Jaime says casually, covered head to toe in blood, leaning against a tree and pulling something long and red and sticky-looking from his molars.

“To raid the Citadel Grand Library and snatch every book on _nochte sang_,” she says.

#

For once, everything goes according to plan.

Having arrived in Oldtown, she and Jaime kill and eat several maesters at work inside the famed library while Tommen, still stubborn about hurting humans, helps Qyburn locate whatever he thinks he needs for his experiments moving forward. They also acquire enough maps to fill their caravan.

In the throes of bloodlust, Jaime quickly fucks her against the stacks, lifting her up, clutching her legs around his waist, and shaking the shelves with the force of his need. Priceless volumes fall to the floor, kicking up dust. She grips Jaime’s shoulders and cries out her climax straight into his mouth, and when they’ve both recovered, they steal all six volumes on _nochte sang_.

“A foolish man once told me knowledge is power,” she tells Tommen during their first lesson. “But in this instance, he was right.”

For two hours upon waking each night, she schools her son on everything there is to know about _nochte sang_ through the ancient texts they stole.

Jaime takes the lad under his wing for the latter half of the evening, and their archery and animal-trap excursions are paying off. Tommen worships him. Jaime seems to enjoy passing along his knowledge and repays Tommen’s idolatry by defending Tommen’s stance when it comes to killing humans.

“Let him do what he wants,” he tells Cersei, and she takes note of this.

A pattern to their nomadic lives emerges. During the day, Qyburn scouts ahead and gathers information on the next village; whom the most important families are, where the Lannisters can go to ground safely at first light, which home has the deepest cellar, which home is most likely to open the door to strangers come nightfall, and other intelligence of that nature.

When darkness falls, Qyburn and Tommen approach the targeted house and ask for succor for the night. With Tommen’s sweet face and Qyburn’s image of fatherly kindness, succor is usually granted, at which point Jaime and Cersei emerge from the shadows, Tommen (reluctantly) forces the dweller to invite the remaining two in as well, and Cersei pounces on the host, pins their wrists and whispers, “You can die screaming, or you can die without a single ounce of pain, in blissful solace. Which do you choose?”

“I’d choose ‘blissful solace,’ personally,” Jaime pipes up with a grin. “She's very good at it.”

“Solace, solace,” the host typically begs.

“All you have to do is answer our questions first.”

#

Per Cersei’s orders, they only kill the most prominent and wealthiest families (“highborn blood tastes the best, haven’t I been telling you that?”) and raid their larders, gold reserves, and any other items of value, such as weapons, that the village is known for holding.

They have no need for such earthly possessions, but that’s the point; they plant the items at the next village, and watch chaos erupt between once-peaceful neighbors. While they’re blaming each other, the Lannisters are well away from it, off to the next village.

With Jaime’s help, Tommen is learning to shoot down every raven sent by the desperate populace warning others of the demons in their midst. It has the added bonus of being part of Tommen's dinner that night.

Qyburn is as obsequious as ever, but Jaime still tries to undermine him every chance he gets.

“So apparently your little hanger-on is working on a cure,” he reports to her one night. They’re enjoying a private evening together in some lord’s lavish bedchambers. “Did you know about this?”

“I _ordered_ it,” she replies coolly. “If we ever come across others of our kind, whose interests don’t align with ours, we can unmake them. By the way,” she adds, “Did you know making more of them weakens us? If we ever build an army, we must tread carefully; once we create the initial forces, we’ll force them to do the same, and in that way, we’ll retain more strength than anyone below us. I’m also learning to do a blood-binding, for servants, so they can never betray us—" 

Jaime’s staring at her, curiously. “It weakened you to make me?”

She pauses. “Yes.”

“Is that why you didn’t—”

“That had nothing to do with it.”

“But that means I’m stronger than you again, doesn’t it?” he replies wickedly. “Because _I _haven’t made _anyone_.”

He spins her and pulls her flush against him, his cock pressing into the small of her back.

Ever since they discovered what their bodies could do together, he's always been so quick to harden for her, his cock seeking her out, seeking out its home, eager to be in her. She considers it half hers, and just as it longs to be inside her, she longs to be filled by it. Knowing Jaime wants her has been the only constant in her life; it's a precious truth and she guards it carefully.

“I think you love it that I’m stronger than you...” he adds, voice low.

And she does, gods help her, she does. Because he’s the only person with whom she can be weak, but still safe.

“I love you,” he breathes in her ear.

She pushes down, back, up and against him in response, rubbing her ass along the length of his hardness.

“How come you never say it?” Jaime whispers. 

“I say it all the time in my head.”

“That doesn’t do _me_ much good, though, does it?”

“Very well,” she says, coming to a decision. “Listen carefully. Empty your mind of anything but me.”

“Done,” he replies instantly.

She laughs. “Take time to do it properly or it won’t work.”

Then she sends him her thoughts for the first time.

_<<I love you. I love you. I love you.>>_

His eyes go large and he snaps his fingers. “I knew you could read my thoughts!”

“Not all of them, just the ones about me.”

“So, pretty much every thought.”

“A flattering number of them, yes. Though the thoughts _themselves_ were not always flattering.”

He grins. “Impossible.”

“I’d prefer not to be fucked ‘to death’, for example.”

He nibbles her ear. “Merely a turn of phrase, a term of endearment." 

“Hmm.”

_<<Is it because we're twins, that this works?>> _he asks.

_<<I think it might be. I don't have this with Tommen. Speaking of Tommen, can we not shave down his fang? That lisp is driving me mad.>>_

_<<You had one as well, at first.>>_

She’s so affronted she loses her concentration and blurts out, “I did not!”

“You did. It was fetching. Especially when you launched into one of your endless speeches about drowning our enemies in rivers of blood. I mean, ‘enemieth in riverth.’”

She kisses him to shut him up.

“Our love has always been a secret. Our whole lives…” she begins.

“All thirty-nine years of them.”

She escapes his embrace to swat at him. “Uch, don’t remind me.”

He laughs. “You’re beautiful."

“As are you," she replies.

“Even in your dotage—"

_<<Hush. Let me finish. If I say it out loud, the gods might take you from me, the way they took Joffrey and Myrcella. I was such a fool, loving them openly, proudly, loudly—I won't risk that with you.>>_

He folds her into his arms, sways them both. _<<It’s not your fault.>>_

_<<We've defied prophecy. I proved the witch wrong! Tommen is going to live. He’ll never be taken from me, and neither will you.>>_

# 

She comes hard against his mouth, and he rises up to kiss her.

_<<Taste yourself>>_ he thinks to her, as their tongues collide. _<<I wish I knew what it felt like, for you>>_ he adds.

_<<Give me another, and I’ll show you>>_ she replies. He dutifully gets back to work, adding a finger this time, nice and shallow at first, then deeper, exactly how she likes it.

She lets go completely, allows him full access to her thoughts as he coaxes her toward a second orgasm. She's taut as a bowstring; it won't take long for it to happen.

_<<Brother, lover, yes, only you, Jaime, oh Jaime, yes, Jaime!>>_

Jaime comes in his breeches, something he hasn’t done, to the best of her knowledge, since adolescence when she shoved her hand down his pants beneath the table during a tedious family dinner. She’d licked her fingers clean, too, in full view of everyone, and been scolded by Father for not using a napkin like a lady.

It had started when he placed her hand in his lap as a jape during prayers. (Septa had rambled on for ages, despite Father’s annoyance.) She tried to squirm free at first, then decided to teach Jaime a lesson instead.

_<<Oh, fuck>>_ is all he can muster, flopping on his back next to her. She purrs and cuddles up to him, and he holds her against his chest.

_<<I think yours are better than mine>>_ he tells her.

_<<That’s because you’ve never seen your face during yours.>>_

A half hour later, she leans over to take him into her mouth.

As she did for him, he opens his mind to her fully. His thoughts are more of the commanding variety, but she indulges him all the same.

_<<Harder, yes, tighter, yes, perfect-Cersei-love-you, oh, fuck>>_

And as he bucks and spills inside her mouth, her cunt clenches in perfect sync with the pulses he sends down her throat, and she has to pull away lest she accidentally bite down with the force of it, the staggering pleasure of it. She could swear she’s gushing fluid, erupting somehow, but when she slides her fingers between her thighs, she discovers a normal amount of wetness.

She’s come without anyone touching her. She’s come just from _him_ coming.

Naturally, it becomes their favorite thing to do.

On the fourth night of taking care of each other this way (Jaime thought it hilarious to fist himself while she was studying a map, and watch her squeeze her thighs together, ride out the sensations, and glare at him), her brother brushes her hair and takes her face in his hands.

_<<Marry me, Cersei. No one can stop us. We can do anything we please.>>_

She pushes him onto the bed and crawls atop him, spent, her mind spinning, so that they’re chest to chest, hip to hip, and leg to leg.

_<<Ask me again. Out loud this time.>>_

“Marry me.”

“Yes,” she promises him.

#

On the night of her wedding to Jaime, it pleases her that she'll remain youngish forever, beautiful for her brother. Because the rules of men don’t apply to them anymore.

She told him once that they were not Targaryens.

She amends that thought, now: They’re something _better_.

Frozen in time ten years ago would have been ideal, but this isn't bad. Staying beautiful while the world around them ages fits the image she has of herself, even if she can no longer confirm it in any looking glass. She's never _really_ needed looking glasses anyway, not when she had her twin to reflect her. Whenever she finds herself missing those earthly, human objects, she need only look at Jaime to feel at peace.

Before the ceremony, which Qyburn will officiate, Jaime says, “I think it’s time you give me a real answer. Why didn’t you want to turn me?”

She looks away, because she couldn't bear it if he made a joke. Not about this.

“I had my reasons.”

“Cersei…”

She feels suddenly shy, and decides to tell him privately.

_<<I needed to know what sort of a father you would be to Tommen, if any. I always planned to turn you. But before I could do that, I had to see.>>_

He replies with his voice, touchingly hesitant. “And… did you like what you saw?”

“I’m marrying you, aren’t I? And I tell you what,” she whispers in his ear, “I’ll be Cersei, and you be Jaime.”

#

The instant they’ve finished their vows and Qyburn has announced them forever joined, Jaime leaps behind her advisor and rips the man's head clean off.

“I don’t want a cure,” he says simply, as Qyburn’s limp, headless body drops to the ground.

Cersei is so shocked she stares mutely for a moment before shrieking, “We needed him! You idiot!”

“We don’t need anyone but us, isn’t that right, Tommen?” Jaime says, nudging Qyburn's head with his boot.

“He _was_ a bit peculiar, Mother,” Tommen says. “And who’s to say he wouldn’t have used the cure against us?” He and Jaime nod at one another and Cersei is incensed that they outnumber her in this view.

“Tommen, please give us a moment.”

Once they're alone, Cersei argues vehemently on Qyburn’s behalf, even though it’s pointless, it’s too late, and _damn_ Jaime and his impulsivity, only to look at her brother and see that he’s smiling.

“What?” she snaps.

“It’s our first married fight.”

“I should wipe that smirk off your face.”

“Use your cunt to do it and I’ll let you,” he says with a rakish grin.

She tries to slap him, but he catches her wrist, twists her in his arms.

It makes her wet.

She’s still furious about Qyburn—they should have discussed it first!—but she likes knowing that even though they’re married, nothing fundamental has changed between her and Jaime.

#

As the weeks go by, Cersei finds she doesn’t mind being away from the Red Keep. The old political intrigue that used up so much of her time and energy in the past means nothing to her now. Their squabbles are all so temporal, so meaningless, when viewed through the lens of immortality.

A month or two later, Margaery of House Tyrell is crowned Queen Regnant, First of Her Name, Light of the West, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, and Protector of the Realm.

As the only living person to have survived a _nochte sang_ attack, she’s earned the pompous, utterly ridiculous, and frankly _uninspired_ additional royal title, “Queen of Life.”

Cersei growls low in her throat at the news, but her rage recedes soon after. Let Margaery and her hand (Olenna Tyrell, of course; the old cunt) rule for the next few decades. It makes her laugh thinking of Margaery having to deal with all the Lannister-instigated civil wars cropping up.

Besides, the social-climbing bitch will be dead in a blink, a feast for worms—while she, Jaime, and Tommen will still be here. Knowing that every single one of her enemies will die of old age while Cersei continues to thrive is a continual source of glee to her.

That doesn’t mean she won’t hurry along the process for a choice list of foes.

For example, she’s curious to learn if Sansa Stark’s blood tastes of lemon cakes.

And she’s definitely going to visit the Sand Snakes in Dorne, pay them back in kind for the death of her darling girl.

She and Jaime already know what they’ll do; before his unceremonious demise, Qyburn had perfected a poison that Cersei can wear as lipstick (it won’t affect her; _nochte sang_ don’t succumb to poisons that fell humans).

Yes, their revenge will be sweeter than Dornish wine, when it comes.

#

At Jaime’s insistence, they raid an allegedly high-end whorehouse for gowns.

“You said you needed multiple gowns that could be worn once,” he tells her. “This is where you get them.”

It’s an ongoing concern, keeping Cersei clothed; each night her gowns are either splattered with blood or torn off by Jaime—sometimes both.

She supposes it’s a compromise she’ll have to bear. After all, she never would have predicted fatherhood would suit Jaime—he had no interest in it when he was younger—but look at him now. Perhaps she can learn to do things she never would have done before, either. 

“I refuse to wear _any_ of these,” Cersei protests, disgusted. “Well, maybe that one—if we de-louse it first.”

Jaime wraps his arm around the whore in question’s throat and whispers in her ear, “Luckily for you, I only eat maidens.”

“Unluckily for you,” Cersei drawls, “he kills everybody else.”

#

A year passes.

The North fights a battle against an army of dead men, and Daenerys Targaryen heads to King’s Landing for peace talks with Margaery, and absolutely none of it matters to the Lannisters.

Tommen, with her encouragement, begins to refer to Jaime not just as “father” but “Lord Father.”

“I’m a lord now, am I?” he says, amused.

“When we’re ready, we’ll take our rightful positions at Casterly Rock,” Cersei declares.

“Let’s play it by ear,” Jaime says, and holds up a severed ear. Cersei’s not amused, but to her surprise, Tommen laughs. And for some reason, that makes her laugh, too.

Their son has recently grown interested in eating humans again—perhaps his rebellion is over. She’s grateful that Jaime convinced her to let his "animal phase" run its course, so Tommen never felt pressured to do something he wasn’t ready for.

She and Jaime are a good team; working together, they’re good parents. How strange it is to say. Of course, it helps that they can have private conversations whenever they need to, without Tommen knowing.

She’s eager to try out the blood-blinding rituals used for servants’ loyalty. Apparently, such a spell will allow Cersei to ensure the absolute fealty of her underlings or army. If any one of them so much as _thinks_ about revolt, betrayal, or violence of any kind against its creator, the _nochte sang_ blood in their veins will fester and turn black, and cuts will open on their skin, exposing their intentions and rendering them incapable of acting on them.

But all that can wait. There’s no rush. In a year or two (or twenty, it matters not), they’ll apply their knowledge from the old books.

Right now, Jaime only wants it to be the three of them.

And she can’t argue with that.  
  
After all, they’re not just safe.  
  
They’re gods.

_fin._


End file.
